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Return of the Fel
“Darkmoon, come quick! We found Orin’s body!” Tahlen entered the home of Maggie Starek, sparsely furnished on account of troubling times. He looked into the fray of frightened faces before him. They had seen much tragedy. It seemed the entire village of Parcus stood in attendance. Tahlen moved through the crowd that had formed around the blanketed corpse lying at the center of the room. Maggie, aged beyond her years, had run dry of tears and sat on the floor across from her only son. “Maggie,” Tahlen said, his own voice weaker than he had been ready for, “are you alright?” She looked to him, her eyes nearly dead but clinging to hope. Not hope for life, for that was a distant dream. Her hope was for answers. “Please,” she said, “will you believe us now?” Tahlen looked to the veiled corpse and pressed his hand against it with reverence. The wool blanket was wet and heavy. He pulled the cover back slightly, the slightest glint of blood pulling away from the sopping body underneath. The sight was ravenous gore. Tahlen caught himself, barely containing a gag as he placed the covering back. “Tahlen,” a voice said from behind. A thick hand, worn with age, fell on to Tahlen’s shoulder in solace. “Brovor,” Tahlen replied, “this was no wolf.” ……… It had been a common Gildorian spring, that is to say, a less-mild winter. Still, the crops needed tending, the herds feeding, and the people preaching. Tahlen had been Squire to Brovor for some many years now; this task was to be his proving to reach the rank of Vanguard within the Darkmoon Saints. He had initially been wary of something so trivial as preaching to some small Gildorian hamlet. Now, he was terrified. “Brovor,” Tahlen said, swinging his axe against the log before his feet, “what do you suppose it was? A bear? A very angry bear?” Brovor, some 20 years Tahlen’s senior, swung his own axe with just as much vigor and youth as any. “Hard to say, but it seems we owe these people an apology. I feel I wronged them for not believing their tales, regardless of how outlandish they seemed.” “It seems even Paladins have room in their souls for error,” Tahlen said with a heave, cleaving a log in twain. “The ability to learn from failure is what makes a man, Tahlen. You should know, what with all of your failures.” Brovor smiled playfully, throwing his axe into the ground to wipe the sweat from his brow. “If I fail, Brovor, then it is only because my teacher lacked in his tutelage!” Brovor laughed, “perhaps that is so.” His face, wrinkled with age, slowly lost its smile. “Tahlen,” he said, “we need to uncover what did this. If it is a bear than it is a powerful mankiller and must be laid to rest.” “And what if it’s not a bear?” Tahlen said, truly hoping no such thing existed. “Then we kill that too. As protectors of this village, that is our duty.” “We should send word to Lin, to Leva Adium, to anyone. They need to know about this.” “Patience, Tahlen. This region is still sore from the Sons of Gildor. No need to unsettle the countryside over what might just be some aggressive wildlife.” “''Might'' be…” Brovor hoisted an armful of logs and heaved them into the pile behind him. “We scout tomorrow, you and I. We find this thing. Once we know, then we can send word.” Tahlen swung again, his axe biting at the wood. “As you wish, sir.” There was the rattle of an old door. Tahlen looked up to see Maggie shuffling down from her home, her hands carrying a small tray of food. It had been three days since Orin had died; she was strong. “Thank you boys so much for helping us,” Maggie said, setting a cracked wooden tray on to one of the many stumps. “With so many of our men gone, the little things have just been piling up.” “We’re here to help,” Brovor said. “Does Mr. Bauer still need help fixing his cart? He’s lived too long to break his back over so simple a thing.” Maggie sighed, “yes, he’s stubborn as any mule, that one. Won’t take help if you offer it. Worries us so, it does.” Tahlen set his axe down, “well sometimes people need a little ‘tough-love’ miss Maggie. I’ll head on over to his farm and put things right, whether he wish it so or not.” Maggie smiled. “Well make sure to eat some of this cheese before you do, it was Orin’s favorite.” Tahlen felt blood rush from his face. He seemed to take Orin's death even harder than the boy’s own mother, and he wasn’t sure why. “Maggie,” Brovor said, “are you doing alright?” “I’m… doing the best I can be, I suppose. Orin’s father died fighting for Tigahn in the Sons. I don’t think I ever truly recovered from that; with Orin gone, it’s like an echo.” Tahlen felt her pain, a familiar song of death he knew all too well. “Maggie, I swear to you. No one else shall die while we are here.” Brovor looked at his pupil; Tahlen noted a twinge of concern on his teacher’s face. “We will do the best we can,” Brovor echoed. “As always.” ……… The woods were covered in fog that rolled from the mountains to the north. Westrun Forest was always known to chill the bone, but Tahlen found even his gambeson could not repel this unnatural chill. Brovor led the way into the forest, his shield illuminated with the glowing crest of the Darkmoon Saints. The Paladin’s battle-worn plate armor inspired hope in Tahlen; he gripped his Longsword tighter, his own armor gleaming in the moonlight. “Brovor,” Tahlen said, wiping stray brush from his cloak, “look, to the south.” The party stopped on the trail, weapons primed in the darkness. An overturned wagon, contents spilled into the foliage, harbored a foul stench. Even against the sounds of night, a throng of buzzing flies could be heard. “Orin’s cart,” Brovor said. “Stay here, and I’ll check ahead. Fight together.” “Never die,” Tahlen replied. Brovor slid down the slope, disappearing beyond the void form of the wagon. Tahlen stood alone, crouched in the brush with eyes primed for movement. They came at night when the moon was strongest, a reflection of their devotion to Húrin. Brovor said it made them stronger. Tahlen did his best to believe it was true. There was a rustle and a snapping of wood. The sound reverberated across the clearing; Tahlen whipped his head around to try and locate the source of the sound. Only darkness and the haunting form of trees met his eyes. He was tempted to remove his helmet to better see the woods, yet he knew the risk was too great. “Brovor,” he whispered, hoping the Paladin had heard the sound. “Was that you?” There was a crash; the wagon rocked as something slammed against it in the dark. “Brovor!” Tahlen roared. He stood to his feet and readied his weapon, making to help his teacher. A shadow emerged from his left and careened into him, sending him flying into the darkness. The wind rushed from his lungs as he fell. The world swam. He reached for his sword and gripped it in one hand. He swung the metal tool wildly into the darkness, clipping something large. There was a yelp of pain. Tahlen rose to his feet, his eyes trained on the shadowy form before him. A creature, larger than any man and layered in fur, gnashed its teeth in anger. It lunged, ripping and tearing at his armor. Tahlen was forced to the ground once more, though he pressed his sword against the bulk of the beast, keeping it from crushing him. Claws and teeth scraped across his armor yet found no hold. Jaws clenched against his face; his helmet did not yield. He leveraged his weight on to one side and pulled his sword across the creature’s chest, spilling it open. Despite the wound the creature did not relent, pressing down on Tahlen once more. The sword flipped from his fingers, dooming him to a nigh unreachable dagger. His armor would keep the claws at bay, but the monster was powerful and nimble. It wrapped its massive hand around Tahlen’s left arm and pulled. Waves of pain shot through Tahlen as his limb began to bend in a way his tendons would not allow. Here, under the maw of this drooling, hideous creature, was not how he wanted to die. There was a crack; blood splattered across Tahlen’s face, flooding his mouth with putrid flavor. The beast went limp; with a heave he hoisted the monster off, noting the skull was bashed to pieces. Brovor, bloodied yet standing, offered a hand. His mace was coated in brain. Tahlen took Brovor’s hand and stood, his left arm severely strained yet still intact. Now standing, Tahlen could make out the mottled form of another wolf monster. Brovor had won, twice. “Tahlen,” he said, showing his age through his ragged breathing, “are you hurt?” “No,” Tahlen said, retrieving his sword from the ground, “just shaken. I can’t imagine what Orin must have thought, witnessing his end at the hands of… one of those.” “Time to head back,” Brovor said, cracking the aged bones in his neck. “This is far more serious than I thought.” “Sir,” Tahlen muttered, noting the rapidly decaying carcass of the monster, “what were these things?” “These are Fel, Tahlen. Felwolves. We may be the first Darkmoon, nay, Lancers to see them in centuries.” “Lin needs to know,” Tahlen said, vaguely recalling the horrific tales of Fel from ages past. “Yes, everyone does. And Parcus needs protection. Those people have no means to defend against these monsters. They crave human blood, Tahlen. They need it to survive.” “What do we do?” “We return, we send help, we defend.” ……… Deger had rode for almost the entire day, now. His hands were shaking in the cold and his horse was nigh spent. He pulled to the side of a large hill and nearly tumbled from the saddle. He checked his pack for his precious cargo, paranoid it had left him in the ride. Three copies of Paladin Brovor’s letter, speaking of monstrous Fel, sat safely inside. “Curse my bones,” Deger said, “Why does Gildor hafta be so damned big?” A figure in the distance caught his eye; no, several figures. Moving in a line down the plains. A caravan? He rushed to his horse, only just accustomed to the rest, and pressed her into full gallop. He closed the distance, hoping these people would hear his plea and help the people of Parcus. Gildorians stuck together, after all. “Hey!” He screamed, “Hail travelers!” The caravan came to a leisurely halt and awaited him. As he reared back his steed afore the group, he noted them armed but diverse of garb, age and disposition. Not soldiers, adventurers maybe? A woman rode closer to him, her green tunic veiled by chainmail and flowing gold silks. “Take a breath, traveler,” she said. “What ails you?” “Please,” he said. “My village… my village needs help. Monsters from the woods, great evil wolves that were once men, have attacked us, and more are coming!” The woman glanced at her companions, a look that Deger could not quite place. “You must think I’m crazy,” he said, “but look, here!” He retrieved the letters from his pack. “Signed by Sir Brovor Alexanz, Paladin of the Darkmoon Saints.” The woman took one of the letters and examined it. She then turned to one of the men behind her and nodded. He pulled a crossbow from his back and fired a bolt straight into Deger’s leg. He screamed in pain, startling his horse and falling from the saddle. More men corralled Deger’s steed before removing the pack from his possession. “Why?” Deger said, gripping his leg in shock. “It’s good to hear our experiment was a success. Hasserra be praised, Uma will be most pleased.” “What in the name of the Gods are you talking about?” Deger made to stand but the pain kept him still. Men surrounded him, their weapons drawn at his helpless form. The woman smiled at him. She seemed intrigued by his pain. “Your little village was just the beginning. Now, at the dawn of our power, the Fel will rise once again.” “What… what do you plan to do?” She produced a slim dagger and knelt before Deger. He trembled at her beautiful form. “First, Baskerburg. And then? Lancerus.” She slipped the dagger through his neck as brutish hands restrained him. He bled, he bled. Darkness. Category:World Lore